Oh what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

My dearest darling beloved Zeke. This is my belated birthday post to you.

Even just writing those words - dearest, darling, beloved - makes me choke up a bit. The love I have for you is so intense and boundless, it overwhelms me sometimes. Which is a good thing, because the past few months with you have required me to draw on every ounce I have of strength, patience, and parental abilities. 

If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't bother. 

I had high hopes for the start of high school. You were so motivated. You signed up for a panoply of challenging classes. You were excited to be in a great school with all of the neighborhood friends you had known from kindergarten and beyond.

But you immediately started hanging out with some non-neighborhood friends who were leading you down a bad path. You were making truly terrible choices, some of which were just irresponsible, others of which were truly dangerous. 

Because I will always respect your privacy, I won't get into specifics. Suffice it to say I was dismayed, worried, and occasionally terrified. 

I have cried and raged and nagged. I get headaches from grinding my teeth at night. I have anxiety dreams and restless sleep. 

I have leaned heavily on my mother to try to figure out what to do. I have asked my brothers to be mentors to you. Even Greg, who also did some stupid shit when he was in ninth grade, offered you some guidance.

Thankfully, the lightbulb seems to have come on. You ditched your trashy friends and are hanging out with kids from your school who appear to be better influences. Because I'm not naïve or stupid, I am under no delusion that you guys don't do stupid shit. But mostly you do normal teenage stuff like go to the mall or hang out at each others' houses or go skateboarding nearby. 

I still nag. I'm crying and raging less often. But we are on a positive trajectory, thank goodness.

It's been frustrating because you're so smart and talented. In terms of sheer brain-power, of an inquisitive approach to the world, of breadth of interests, you could have it all. It would take minimal effort to be a super-star, which is one of the things that has so frustrating to me. 

My approach to you and Josie (and most situations) is to try to assess what's going on from an objective and reasonable place. I examine what outside stressors you're dealing with, why you might make the choices you make, and what you're capable of from a maturity/developmental perspective. 

So I understand that 15 year old boys are morons whose brains aren't done cooking yet. I have to take that into account when you're making dumb decisions. 

But still. You have gone above and beyond in this regard.

On the other hand, it's not all bad, or even mostly bad. When you are on your game - which is most of the time - you are one of the most delightful people I know. You're funny and affectionate and sweet. You're witty and clever and fun to talk to. When you're not sulky, you constantly give me hugs and tell me how much you love me. 

I know this is true. As you have told me in the past, I am your person. The one you lean on the hardest, but also the one who bears the brunt of the bad stuff because you know that you are safe with me and that I can handle it. That I will never turn my back. 

Sometimes the relentlessness of your need for me feels crushing. But it has also made me a better mother and a better person.

This shit isn't for the faint of heart, that's for sure. I also know that it will pass. You will mature and it won't be so hard.

You are 15 now. You are charming and a gatherer of people, your peers pulled in by your heliotropic powers. You are truly gorgeous. You're a talented athlete. Kind. Sensitive. Brilliant. 

Complicated. 

Anything you want to do, you could accomplish. You just need to believe in yourself and put in the effort. I will always have high hopes for you.

And you know I will be there for you however I can. 

All the love in my heart,

Mom

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy

 My darling Zeke,

This past Sunday was your 14th birthday. You were with your dad, but you and I had planned to go shopping for a new skateboard. You have recently gotten very into skateboarding - taking your board with you everywhere, constantly practicing your ollies, putting holes in my delicate lathe-and-plaster walls by accidently crashing the board into them. It's been fun seeing you develop this new interest, and in typical Zeke fashion, you practice tirelessly because you want to get good at it. But you were riding a crappy board that had been cobbled together from a couple of other crappy boards, so for your birthday I promised you a shiny new one. 

We ended up not going because a couple of your good friends came over and you wanted to hang out with them. Which was absolutely fine. I'm happy that you have some close friends that you spend time with. It's as it should be. 

Instead, we went on Monday after I got out of court. You picked out an awesome board with all the accoutrements and I ended up spending far more than I thought I would have to on a skateboard, but I was happy to do it. 

This has been crazy year. It started off with you and Josie still doing school remotely, which absolutely sucked. You were miserable and bored and depressed. Sometimes you took it out on me - I guess that's par for the course for parents of teenagers. 

You were unhappy, you weren't getting enough exercise, and you were unhappy with your life and with yourself. You didn't like how you looked and worried that you were fat (you weren't). I told you that you were obviously getting ready for a growth spurt, and whatever minimal COVID- and isolation-related fluff you were carrying would disappear in no time.

And man, did it ever. 

Over the past five months, you have transformed into a different person. You have grown a few inches and totally leaned out. Your face has lost any semblance of baby fat and you look like you're three or four years older than you are. You're growing your hair out and it looks amazing. You're beautiful. 

But even more importantly, you're wonderful. 

I don't know what happened, but at some point in the late spring a switch flipped and you emerged from your funk. Maybe it was just a maturity growth spurt to go along with your physical growth spurt. Maybe it was the bike camp adventure you went on in June - two weeks biking and camping the length of Vermont with a bunch of other kids your age. Maybe it was finishing school and getting vaccinated and feeling like there was some respite from the strictures of COVID life.

Whatever it was, since then you have been consistently delightful. You're sweet and kind and affectionate. You're helpful most of the time. You might not always do what I ask, but you're never a dick about it. You're fun to be around. You have nice friends, many of whom are always at my house eating all of my food. You're enjoying being back in school. 

Of course, life is not without its bumps.

This year also brought a significant problem that the family is dealing with. Suffice it to say that it threw you for a big loop and was starting to send you down an emotional tailspin. I was unable and unwilling to watch you spiral when things were just starting to feel good and stable for you after years of dealing with some traumatic shit, both COVID-related and otherwise. So I stepped in and did my best to fix the problem, and things have calmed down again.

It sure scared me, though. I love you so much, and I have spent so much time over the past few years trying to help you navigate the trauma you experienced from the divorce, from the abuse you suffered from your first stepmom (not the current one), from the difficulties you and Dad were having, from the pandemic. 

My mama-bear instincts kicked in and I was hell-bent on protecting you. 

I realized that's part of what will always make our relationship special. Of course I love your sister to pieces, but she doesn't need me the way you do. She's always been more resilient than you are, and she relates to Dad more than you are able to. 

So I am your safe person. And you are the one I will always rush to care for and protect, no matter what. To say that I love you doesn't begin to describe how utterly you occupy my heart. 

Love love love, 

Mom

I'd bet it all on a good run of bad luck

It had been awhile since I'd had a good travel mishap, so I guess I was due. I just didn't realize yesterday that it was going to be a two day affair.

Yesterday I flew out of Denver to head to D.C. for our annual trip to the Outer Banks. I slept for the first part of the trip and then started watching some episodes of The Last Kingdom that I had downloaded onto my phone. I was totally engrossed and completely oblivious to what was going on around me.

At around the time we were supposed to land, we landed. I took my phone off of airplane mode and texted my mom.

"Just landed."

"Where?"

I found this response extremely confusing. I looked out the window and realized we were not at Dulles Airport. 

I took my headphones out of my ears and turned to the lady sitting next to me.

"Do you know what's going on?" I asked.

"Yeah, we were diverted to Louisville because of weather in D.C. They're on a total ground-stop. Nothing is taking off or landing there."

Oh. 

I felt like a moron, but also recognized that it was kind of funny.

"Are we going to be getting off the plane?"

"No, they're refueling and then we're going to wait until we get the go-ahead to take off and head to D.C."

We waited for a while. People were standing up to stretch their legs, chatting with their neighbors. Everyone was pretty chill. The flight attendants handed out snacks and drinks. 

The pilot came on the intercom and announced that the ground-stop had been extended another hour. Everyone was bummed but there was nothing to do but wait. So we waited some more.

After about 20 minutes, he came back on the intercom and announced that the ground-stop had been lifted early. Time to go!

We finally arrived in D.C. two hours later than we were supposed to. I was reunited with my children, whom I hadn't seen in four weeks. They astounded me both with how beautiful they are and with how tall they are getting. I gave my parents big hugs and kisses. I helped my mom finish packing the cars. We watched an extraordinary basketball game and then went to bed, preparing to head out early in the morning to beat the bad traffic. 

I went to sleep late and woke up early - about 3:45 a.m. Denver time. I drove with the kids in my dad's car and my mom and dad drove in her car. For three and a half hours, the drive was uneventful. Down I-95 past the sites of famous Civil War battles - Manassas, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania. Stopping as we always do for breakfast at the McDonald's at mile marker 118. Through Newport News and Norfolk and Chesapeake, past the battleships and aircraft carriers. 

The kids slept and bickered and played Connect 4.

Then, about 15 miles from the North Carolina border, Zeke tried to adjust his seatbelt and got stuck.

He was in the front seat with me and had wrapped it around himself to move the shoulder strap so that he could sleep more comfortably. He unclicked the belt at the bottom but discovered that it was twisted around his body and he couldn't get it loose - the mechanism that catches the strap at the top (like in the event of a crash) was stuck and we couldn't get it to release. Every time we tried, it got tighter and tighter around his waist. He was in pain and freaking out. 

We came up to a section of road that had a wide flat median - I pulled over and ran around to his side of the car to try to help him, but nothing worked. He was getting more and more upset and I felt helpless to figure out a way to get him loose.

There was a police officer and a guy from the Virginia DOT nearby - they saw us and came over to try to help. We pulled and twisted. We even removed some of the covering to the section of the door where the belt mechanism was housed, trying to find a bolt or a button or something that would release it, but there was nothing. In the meantime, Zeke was in terrible pain and discomfort.

Finally, the police officer took out his pocket knife. 

"Say the word and I'll cut the belt."

"Go ahead and do it," I replied. "I don't see that we have any other option."

So he cut the belt and Zeke was free. 

The officer also summoned the emergency rescue folks, because apparently that's the protocol.

Zeke thanked him profusely and said he was OK, but the officer insisted that we stay so that the paramedics could check Zeke out to make sure he was fine.

Within five minutes, there was a big fire truck, an ambulance, and another police rescue vehicle pulled up around us. The paramedics ushered Zeke into the ambulance and checked his vital signs while the police rescue guys took down our information. 

It seemed like overkill, but apparently that's their process. 

"Well, this is a new one for me!" the police officer said.

"Tell me about it," I said.

Finally, we were given the OK to leave. The police officer even directed traffic away from us so that we could pull out into the road without any difficulty. 

A couple of hours later, we were at the house. We unpacked and headed to the beach for a bit before some bad weather rolled in.

Josie rides her skim-board before the storm.

All is well. It's raining and thundering outside but comfortable inside. Everything's fine.

But man, it's been a hell of a weekend. 

Mean mommy

"Mom, me and Zeke are switching rooms."

I had just walked home from being out for a couple of hours to meet a friend for a drink. The margaritas were making my brain slightly fuzzy.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Zeke is going to take my room and I'm going to take Zeke's room."

"Wait ... what? Why?"

Zeke saw me and yelled down from upstairs, "hey Mom! Do you have an allen wrench? I need it to take Josie's bed apart."

"What? I don't know. Maybe. I don't know where it would be."

"OK, I'll call dad."

Minutes later: "Dad's got one! I'm going to bike over there."

It was 9:30 at night.

"What? No! It's 9:30 at night, you don't have a light on your bike, and I don't want you riding up Josephine and York streets in the dark."

"But I need it to take Josie's bed apart!"

Josie has an IKEA bunk bed that I can take apart and put back together easily. I am the queen of assembling IKEA furniture - I find it very zen and satisfying. But the bed takes awhile, and if you're 12 years old and impatient and don't know what you're doing and don't have the directions (they were thrown away years ago), you'll make a big fat mess and end up crying. Crying 12-year-olds are annoying as fuck.

"It's 9:30 at night!! You're not taking Josie's bed apart! It's complicated and it takes a long time to do it right, and you'll mess it up and then I'll have to fix it, and I don't feel like it fixing it. I'm tired. It's bedtime. You have camp tomorrow. You need to get ready for bed."

"But we want to switch rooms," they whined.

"I don't care. You're not doing it tonight. You can do it tomorrow. And I'm not helping."

This went back and forth for a while, ending with Zeke saying, "god, mom, why are you so mean???"

I'm mean. I'm so, so mean.

I'm mean when I make them clean their messes up before I turn on the WiFi.

I'm mean when I make them go to bed before midnight.

I'm mean when I don't let them eat upstairs because it's gross and eventually I end up rummaging through the kitchen going, "where the hell are all my bowls???"

I'm mean when I'm on a video conference for work and Zeke starts bellowing at me about something and I'm like, "I'M WORKING!! BE QUIET! I'LL HELP YOU WHEN I'M DONE!!"

 I'm mean when I get irritated that it takes me half an hour to get them out of bed to go to camp.

Thank the little baby Jesus for camp.

Colorado is actually doing pretty well with COVID. Our numbers are declining. Our governor is making data-driven decisions and slowly opening things up while still maintaining certain restrictions and precautions. The one thing I vehemently disagreed with him on was his approach to summer camp.

My kids were registered for two weeks of overnight camp, which they love because it's fun, and while I love because they're gone and I can get some peace and quiet. The gov had delayed making an announcement until late May, but the word was positive. And my assumption was that as between overnight camps and day camps. day camps have exponentially more opportunities for transmission, whereas with overnight camp, you check in, you get your health screening, and then you're captive for 14 days.

But then the overnight camps closed and the day camps opened, so day camp it was.

It's hard for them. Nothing is back to normal - the neighborhood pool is closed, the rec center a few blocks away is closed, most of their friends aren't allowed to play with anyone else. They're restless and antsy and bored.

But it's hard for me too. Zeke has been living here full time, but Josie had continued to go back and forth between my house and her dad's house. And then about a month ago, she started staying at my house longer and longer.

"Don't you want to go see daddy?" I keep asking.

She shrugs and says, "sure, but not tonight."

I think a big part of it is that they like being together. They will fight and bicker, but they really do love each other and take care of each other.

But I need a break, so I told them that I need every other weekend to myself. Two days out of every fourteen. Zeke suggested that I got plenty of alone time when they're at camp - i.e., WHEN I'M WORKING. I expressed outrage at that suggestion. They were thinking I was mean but they were smart enough not to say it. So I'm getting my weekend in three days.

Last night their dad brought over the allen wrench and they got to work. Zeke tried to take Josie's bed apart and got a little turned around about exactly which pieces needed to come apart in order to move the bed, and which could stay intact, So of course I helped. We took the bed apart and moved it and put it back together. We figured out how to move Josie's enormous dresser (but not before they accused me of being mean when they insisted on trying to do it in a way that was never going to work and I said, "it's not going to work that way").

Zeke said, "isn't this fun, mom? We're bonding!"

I went back to my room and got into bed. The kids were excited about their new rooms.

Ten minutes later Josie poked her head around the door. "Can I sleep with you?"

She crawled in, threw an arm around me, and went to sleep.

Truth hurts

It takes a lot to accept that a fundamental decision in your life was a bad one. It's hard to admit it, that your judgment was so off.

You want to think that you chose well. Because if you're wrong, you were so, so wrong. You failed so utterly.

So you suffer through years of gas-lighting, being made to feel like you're crazy for being outraged that your children are suffering and so unhappy because he is incapable of taking their needs into account. You protect them as much as you can, to the point of calling DHS on one occasion when he gets a little too rough with the boy.

As he drags them from house to house and woman to woman, you are the rock. You maintain the stability they need - your house is the same, your temperament is the same, your rules are the same, your love is the same. You don't introduce them to any romantic interests.

In particular, the boy suffers. The first post-divorce wife is a fucking monster and awful to the children. When they break up, he's alone for a little while, but he is incapable of being alone, so he starts dating a new woman and marries her within about 8 or 9 months. She's a nice person, but she has 4 kids, meaning the children are moving into a household with 5 new people, only some of whom they like.

Imagine that for a minute. You're young and heading into puberty, with all of the craziness that entails. Over the past few years, your life with your father has been turbulent. It has been exhausting and occasionally traumatic. You're a bit of an introvert, like your mother. And now you have to move into a house with a new step-mother and four new step-brothers. The step-mother also has an after-school childcare business, so the house is constantly crowded and noisy. You alternate weeks between the chaos of the new situation and the quiet and calm of your mother's house.

The very thought of it makes your chest tighten with anxiety. Predictably, the boy doesn't deal with it well, and his behavior at his father's house shows it. He is miserable, and makes everyone else in the house miserable as well.

Rather than recognize the source of the boy's behavior and unhappiness, or to understand that the boy is 12 and prepubescent and thus essentially clinically insane, his father informs you that the boy is a cancer and an asshole and a cunt (sorry - his word, not mine), and that he is no longer welcome in his house.

So it is agreed that it's best for everyone if the boy comes to live with you, where he can have one place that's home with the one parent who feels like home. When things calm down, maybe he will spend occasional weekends with his father so that you can take a trip or get some downtime.

Also, the boy is unhappy at his middle school - it's just not a good fit. So you arrange for him to switch to a different school with a better system of instruction, a better curriculum, and better teachers. When he starts the new semester there, he is immediately ecstatic. He loves school, always wants to talk about what he's learning, wakes up every morning chirpy and with a spring in his step.

Things are sorted. You've got the carpool situation locked down.  You've got an upcoming business trip and some girls' weekends coming up, and it is agreed that the boy will stay with his father for a couple of nights.

Things have gone from anxious and tumultuous to organized and calm. The boy is happy, so you are happy.

On Friday night, you head off on your girls' ski weekend in the mountains feeling confident that the boy will be OK with his dad for a weekend. They're going skiing and all seems to be well. You're looking forward to connecting with friends and skiing a mountain that you don't know very well.

But then you are awakened at 6:15 yesterday morning by a phone call. It looks to be from the father's wife, but when you pick up, it is the boy. He is crying.

He was dawdling and difficult when told he needed to get up and get ready to leave. Traffic to the mountains on a Saturday morning is a nightmare, so if you want to minimize the agony, you need to leave by 6 at the latest, and preferably a little earlier. Missing that 15 minute window can literally add an hour to the trip, so time is of the essence.

With a carload of people up and ready to go, the boy petulantly said, "just leave without me." So they did. I kind of get that part of it. But they also take his phone. Just to be a dickish and punitive. Just to pile on.

Again, imagine that for a minute. A 12 year old boy is left alone in the house with both parents out of town. His means of communication is taken away. Word is not left with a neighbor or a friend that he's on his own, to keep an eye out just in case. If there's an emergency, no one can get in touch with him. If there is an emergency on his end, he's left to fend for himself.

He remembers that the Amazon Echo is hooked up to the step-mother's phone contacts, so that is how he manages to reach you.

You could try to get someone to go get him, but you can't call him to give him a head's up. Nonetheless, a friend generously agrees to go check on him and take him home, but when he knocks on the door nobody answers - the boy went back to sleep and didn't hear anything.

The boy needs you. There's nothing to do but go back to Denver.

On the way, you call and ask what happened.

"He was being a jerk and holding everybody up, so we left him."

"But why did you take his phone? Aren't you concerned about what could happen if there's an emergency and he can't call anyone and no one can call him?"

He laughs and says, "I guess not," which just about sends you into orbit.

You're quiet for a second and then ask, "don't you care about what happens to him? Don't you love him?"

"Not really," he responds.

"How can you say that about your son?" you ask.

"You don't know what he's like," he says.

So there it is. He's a father who isn't interested in being a father when things are difficult or inconvenient. His love, to the extent he is capable of it, is conditional. He seems unconcerned with his son's safety. He doesn't understand that being a good parent means gutting it out when adolescents act like normal adolescents - i.e., assholes.

You pick up the boy. You take all of his things and all of his clothes. The poster of the earth viewed from the surface of the moon - a gift that his grandfather bought him at the Air & Space Museum - is removed from the wall and brought home.

Everything has come very clearly into focus. Because you didn't want to accept that you failed, you have spent years trying and trying and trying again to repair the relationship, to keep lines of communication open, to get them into therapy to work out their differences. The parent-child relationship is so important. Boys need their fathers. Blah blah blah.

You have tried to talk yourself into believing that his horrible abusive childhood left him somewhat emotionally stunted and not good at resolving conflict, but that deep down, he's a good person. A good father. That your kids are OK with him.

But you realize that you are beating your head against the wall. You are the only one making the effort. You are Don Quixote, tilting at windmills.

The truth is, he's a terrible person and a terrible father. Your son is not OK with him. You did choose badly. You did fail.

That realization is heartbreaking, but also liberating. Your path forward is clear. You now know that there's no point in trying to force him to be someone he's not capable of being.

The boy has you, and that will be enough.

Hannukah music

I've written before about my love of bluegrass and how, at the age of 27, my particular love of the banjo spurred me to ask for one when my mother asked me what I wanted for Hannukah.

At first, I played all the time. I was young and single and childless and had endless time to hang out with my musician friends, singing and playing and drinking bourbon. Then I got married and had children and didn't live in places where my circle of friends all played the guitar or the fiddle or the upright bass or the mandolin.

That's still where I am. I pick up the banjo from time to time. My kids ask me to play songs for them. But my friends are almost all married with kids, and my limited social life does not involve picking parties full of song and bourbon and bonfires. And banjo isn’t really a solo instrument.

I love music, though. I always have it playing, often I'm singing along, often my kids are often singing along. It turns out Zeke has a beautiful voice. He's in choir and was selected to be in the all-city choir group and is going to audition for the Denver School of the Arts. I don't know if he'll get in, or even if it's a good fit for him, but it's cool that it's an option.

It also turns out that he's taken to playing the piano. His after-school babysitter has a piano in the house and she encourages the kids to bang away at it. Zeke has learned/taught himself a bunch of songs, and is always fiddling. Let's just say that while we were at my parents' house for Thanksgiving - they have a piano - we heard a LOT of "Heart and Soul."

We didn't mind too much. It's catchy.

Hannukah is early this year. When we got back from Thanksgiving, it was upon us. Like my mother did for me 21 years ago, I asked Zeke what he wanted for Hannukah. Like I did 21 years ago, he responded that he wanted a musical instrument - a piano.

I looked on Craiglist. Turns out you can get a rehearsal piano for practically no money. And I would have happily bought one, except that I don't know where I would put it. We could put it in Zeke's room, which is huge, but that would entail getting up the stairs. No thanks.

But there were also a gajillion electric keyboards for sale. Some people the next neighborhood were getting rid of theirs. It's in perfect shape. It has a ton of different settings. It came with the stand and a seat. I got some cash out of the machine and Zeke and I went and got it.

It's in his room and he loves it. And best of all, it has a volume button.

When Josie came back to me after being with her dad, I asked her the same question. "What do you want for Hannukah, JoJi?"

She thought about it and said, "a guitar."

So today we went to Guitar Center and got her a guitar that's the right size for her. My parents gave her a set of lessons that will start after the new year. She has a case that allows her to carry the guitar on her back. I got her a book to get her started, and I'm teaching her the basic chords.

It's made me want to pick up my banjo again. We can have a family band and go on the road.

I'd need to learn "Heart and Soul" on the banjo.

Happy Hannukah, everyone. May your lives be full of music.

This one goes to 11

My dearest Zekey-beans.

Today you are eleven years old.


Eleven is a weird age. There isn't the novelty of being in double digits, but you're not quite a teen. You're in full-on tween-dom. Which is weird.

On one hand, you're still a kid, still very much attached to me, still loving on me like you did when you were a toddler. You still hug me and tell me that you love me multiple times a day. You still have an extraordinary willingness to show me your physical bizness as the situation calls for it - "mom, I have a rash!" - while bending over and revealing all. Oy.

On the other hand, in true teen-adjacent fashion, EVERYTHING IS EMBARRASSING!!

You were horrified last Friday when we made our ill-fated trip to a local haunted house and Josie was so terrified of the prospect of what was to come that she burst into tears and refused to go in at all. That wasn't the embarrassing part - what upset you was my effort to go get my money back for the cost of Josie's and my tickets. "Mom, don't!! Can't we just go home???"

I'm not allowed to talk to you while you're playing PS4 with your friends while wearing your headset, because god forbid they hear me telling you to come eat your dinner, or reminding you to get off the game because it's bedtime.

A couple of weeks ago I picked you up at school and you were in tears because your teacher made some innocuous comment that could have possibly been interpreted to accuse you of looking at your girlfriend rather than at your work.

"It's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me!" you wailed.

Sigh.

Things are not easy for you right now.

You're living with me full-time because things between you and your dad are not great. So in addition to the normal mercurial nature of being eleven - the normal feelings associated with early puberty and having crushes, trying to act like you were created in a petri dish so that you can pretend your parents don't exist, generally being a dick to your sister- you're often sad and anxious and grumpy ON TOP of all that.

It's not so much fun for either of us. We fight a lot. We push each others' buttons. We don't get time away from each other.

I get no time to myself, period.

But there will be moments when everything between us feels perfect. Little moments.

Last night you were feeling sore - I think you're having some growing pains - and asked me to massage your back. So I was working on your back muscles, and then I had you lie on your back so I could help you with some stretches. And then I lay down next to you and you curled into me, and we were joking and laughing about something, all snuggled up. I showed you a picture I have on my phone of you as a baby.

"Who's that good looking fella?" I asked.

And we were smiling and talking, feeling relaxed and happy.

You have told me I am your safe person - the one person you feel you can totally rely on when you're sad or upset or scared. You trust me completely. You tell me everything, good or bad.

Sometimes being that person can be exhausting and anxiety producing. You have said, in so many words, "I can't function without you."

I feel so much responsibility to make everything OK.

But in moments like the one last night, I feel the privilege of being the one you open up to. I feel utterly, overwhelmingly loved and appreciated.

You are a complicated, difficult, delightful, intelligent, interesting, beautiful human being. I created you, and you are mine and I am yours. It is a great gift.

To say that I love you seems woefully inadequate. You are a part of me in every sense. You fill my heart.

Everything's going to be OK. I will help you and make it OK.

All my love,

Mom

Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me

I woke up to the sound of someone walking into the house. I reached out to look at my phone - it was 1:15 in the morning.

I was startled but not afraid. I knew who it was.

I walked down the stairs and into the living room. He stood there looking exhausted and weepy.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, helpless.

"How did you get here, sweetie?"

"I walked."

"You walked here from daddy's?"

It's three and a half miles. It's 1:15 in the fucking morning.

He nodded and started to cry. "I needed to be with you," he said.

I looked down and saw he wasn't wearing any shoes. Three and a half miles. Three and a half miles in the middle of the night with no shoes. Wandering around Colorado Boulevard in the middle of the night.

Three and a half miles in the middle of the goddamned night with no shoes.

"Mom, I'm so tired. I'm so cold."

I sat down on the couch and he curled himself into my lap.  I wrapped my arms around him and rocked him the way I did when he was a baby.

"It's ok, honey. You're ok. I'm here. You're safe."

He nodded and closed his eyes. He was so worn out and relieved to be with me that it brought tears to my eyes.

"Sweetie, let's go upstairs and get in bed. You need to sleep. We can talk in the morning."

He was going through some stuff with his dad. Neither of them was handling it well, but one of them is a child, and one isn't. Sometimes I think adults don't realize the emotional impact they have on their children. They don't think about how their words and actions can make their child feel like the solid ground beneath their feet has turned to quicksand. They don't realize that a cutting remark doesn't just leave a scrape - it's a deep stab.

I was in a constant state of crippling anxiety, worrying about my children, trying to help them navigate a rough time, trying to keep work and the house and everything else functioning.

A woman I know, whose son is friends with Zeke, remarked, "he left his dad's house in the middle of the night and walked to your house without telling anyone? That's such bad behavior. You must have been ready to kill him."

I wanted to say, of course I wasn't ready to kill him, you moron. A ten-year-old doesn't walk three miles to their mother's house in the middle of the night - barefoot - because they're misbehaving. They do it because they're in pain.

It was devastating to think about how desperate he must have felt to do that.

We went to the Outer Banks a few days later. It was as it always is - familiar and beautiful and consistent. I got a good tan. I read some books. I spent some quality time with my brother Josh.

But Zeke was a mess. I was a mess. I felt like my life was a mess. I wasn't sleeping. The anxiety gripped my chest like a vise. I cried constantly. I felt responsible for everything, and like I was utterly failing.

Eventually, after we were home, he and his dad worked stuff out. He's much, much better. School is going well. Everyone is getting along.

You think that the awfulness can't possibly resolve itself. And then, very quickly, it does.

But man, it was a hard summer.

It's not time to make a change, just relax, take it easy

Zeke recently asked me, "Mom, is it OK if I sleep by myself?"

My children have been crawling into my bed since they were babies. Sometimes I have gone through periods of proclaiming "EVERYBODY SLEEPS IN THEIR OWN BED!!"

It never sticks. They are warm and snuggly and sweet. They argue about who gets to sleep next to me. They reach their hands out in the morning to touch my cheek and say, "I love you, Mom."

I'll take it as long as I can get it.

But Zeke is starting to pull away. He'll be 11 in a few months, and he is exhibiting early signs of pre-teen-ish behavior. Spending all hours talking to his friends. Preferring to hang out with them on weekends. Holing up by himself in different parts of the house, away from Josie and me. Being churlish to me and his sister.

"Ugh, he's such a dick!" Josie will exclaim.

"I know," I'll say. "Older brothers can be jerks."

He's noticing girls, and they're noticing him. Sometimes I look at him and am struck by how handsome he is. I do my best to hammer home the importance of treating girls - and himself - with kindness and respect. His looks would make it easy for him not to.

Of course I understand that this separation process is normal. I try to give him space. When he's acting like a asshole pre-teen, I make every effort to not take the bait, and usually I succeed. It diffuses the conflict and his sweet self eventually reemerges and comes back to me.

Tomorrow is the start of the kids' two-week summer stint with Jason, followed by our two week trip to the Outer Banks. I will be using that solo time to set the kids up in their own bedrooms. They have shared a room since Josie was born, but we have reached That Time. They need their own space.

The bummer is that I'm losing our playroom/workout room setup, but the little alcove off my bedroom that I use as an office - which has never actually had much use as an office - will become my home gym. It'll be fine.

I told Zeke that of course he could sleep in his own bed.

So now, most nights he goes to sleep in his own bed.

But most mornings, he still wakes up in mine.

Double digits, plus a month

My dearest, sweetest Zekey,

I am writing your birthday post a month late. I don't think I've ever been so delayed in writing a birthday post for either you or your sister, and I'm kind of at a loss as to how I let it happen.* This will be the subject of another post, but for now my only excuse is that for months now I've felt overwhelmed and exhausted and anxious, and my thoughts have been jumbled and disorganized.  It has paralyzed my ability to write.

So. Back to you.

You're ten years old now. You're smart and athletic and increasingly independent. I encourage that independence - you are free to ride your bike around the neighborhood, walk from school to tae kwon do class to home, as you see fit. You can go to the park with your friends without me. You're friendly and sweet. You're a huge pain in the ass, sometimes.

On your tenth birthday, we were in Italy. Mimi and Papa were in Lucca for a month, so you and Josie and I went for a week.  

In June I had started studying some Italian in preparation for the trip, and sometimes you joined me in studying. You have the family's ear for accents and languages - listening to you practice was lovely and endearing.  I was using the Mango program and loaded the app onto your Kindle, and the next time I opened the app I saw that in addition to Italian, you had started lessons in German, Japanese, and Mandarin. 

You were utterly yourself in Italy. In Lucca, you climbed up walls and jumped off of them, climbed up and down the stairs of Guinigi tower, and hugged the soprano who performed Puccini arias at the San Giovanni church.  You talked to waiters and shopkeepers in Italian, telling them "buongiorno!" "Si, grazie!" "Parlo un po' italiano."

On top of Guinigi Tower.

You climbed the tower in Pisa and explored the basilica.

You can't go to Pisa and not take this shot. I think it's the law.

At the top of the bell tower

You splashed around in the water in Vernazza and enjoyed a snooze on the boat ride along the Cinque Terre.

That water is disgusting, but it didn't stop you (in the black shirt) from fully submerging yourself

You were game and interested in looking at art in Florence.  Granted, you took the greatest pleasure out of taking extreme close-ups of David's junk with my phone, but you also admired the sculpture as a whole. When you walked into the Duomo, your jaw dropped and you exclaimed, "WOW!! Mom, this is amazing!!" When we were in the Uffizi, you did get to the point of saying, "I just can't look at any more paintings or churches," which, fair enough. We all have our limit.

At the Galleria dell' Academia in Florence

On the Ponte Vecchio

Being you, you also had some incredibly difficult episodes. Disagreeable. Oppositional. Infuriating. Frustrating.

I worry about you. You seem to be going through a rough patch. You cling to me and are emotional about the custody arrangement - you hate going back and forth and often tell me you only want to live with me. The divorce obviously still affects you deeply and I feel so guilty for upending your life because of my failed marriage. It's not fair to you.

About a month ago, you said, "Mama? Do you mind if I call you 'mom'? 'Mama' seems kind of babyish."

"Of course," I responded. "You can call me whatever you want. I never insisted that you call me 'mama.' It was just something that you and Josie did and kind of stuck with."

Now you make a point of throwing "mom" into conversations with me, as if you're trying on a suit that makes you look and feel grown up. It's adorable.

But when you're tired or upset, you reach for me and wrap yourself around me and say, "I love you, Mama," as you bury your face in my neck.

Even at the ripe old age of 10, you have no problem expressing your love for me. I'll take it for as long as I can.

Because I love you too, son. So, so much.

Love,

Mama

_____________________
*OK, I checked. I was a month late for Josie's post in 2014, because September of that year was when Emma died and I was a wreck.

The summer of love

The sun was shining and the air felt pleasantly warm, but not too hot, as I walked across the street and into the YMCA to pick up the kids. It's already mid-June, but there's always a feeling of "already?" when summer weather finally hits. Invariably, there's a snow storm in mid May (as there was this year), and then the lingering chilliness of spring that lasts right up until the time that it's 60 degrees and cloudy one day and 90 degrees and sunny the next, and then it's summer.

Last Friday was the last day of school, and this past Monday was the first day of camp. The kids were excited. They like school, but they were ready for a break from the grind, particularly Zeke. Summer is when they get to go to YMCA camp, where they hang out with friends and have a different fun field trip every single day - "and we get to do lanyards, Mama!!" They get to ride their bikes around the neighborhood and hang out at the pool, which is three blocks from my house and one block from their dad's. They get to go on vacation - the Outer Banks with me, and then somewhere else with dad. We go hiking and camping in the mountains. I take them to a Cirque du Soleil show.  On super hot days, we might seek refuge in the air conditioning of the the art museum or the science museum or the movies.

Done with school and ready for summer.

And even though my life doesn't change that much during the summer - I still go to work, I still have the kids according to the same schedule - the kids' sense of happiness and relaxation makes me more happy and relaxed, and nowhere is that more evident than in our morning routine.

Here's what most mornings are like during the school year:

I get out of bed at 6 to exercise. I shower. I try to wake up the kids.

"Good morning, kiddies. Time to get up."

"Mamaaaa..." Zeke will groan.

"Come on honey, it's time to get up. You too, Josie."

"No. I'm tired." She burrows under her blankets and sticks a pillow on top of her head.

"I know, sweetie, but it's time to get up. Come on, I'll get you some clothes to put on."

I go pick clothes out for them.

"Come on, guys. Let's go." My voice is not quite as sweet as it was before.

They flop around in bed, moaning about being tired.

I tell them to get up and get dressed, and then I go to brush my teeth.  When I come back, no one has stirred.

"Guys!! Let's go. It's time to get up!"

I get dressed, go downstairs to make myself some coffee, assemble lunch for Zeke (Josie likes to buy it at school), find socks and shoes and books and jackets.

I look at the clock and realize we need to leave the house in 20 minutes if they're going to be on time for school.  I run upstairs. They're still in bed.

"CHILDREN! YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF BED! IT'S TIME TO GET UP!"

"You're so mean!" they respond. But they finally get up.

The next 20 minutes is a flurry of me making breakfast, drinking coffee, putting on my makeup, finding my car keys, "shoes! where are your shoes??" "where's your backpack?" "do you have your Thursday folder?" "the bell is going to ring in 8 minutes, WE HAVE TO GO!!!"

They bicker and dawdle. As we're leaving the house, someone decides to race upstairs to find three things they need to put in their backpacks. Without fail, they are things that do not need to be taken to school.

We finally get in the car and I drop them off with no time to spare, feeling frazzled and tense. Every day, no matter how early I get up, no matter how early they go to bed the night before, no matter how organized I think I am, it's down to the wire every. single. day.

In contrast, this is what it's like in the summer:

I get up at 6 to exercise. Then I shower. By the time I'm out of the shower, they're up, bustling around happily.

"Hi, kidlets! I washed your camp shirts and they're downstairs. Don't forget to brush your teeth."

"OK, Mama!" they chirp.

They get dressed without incident, they eat their breakfast without incident, there's no bickering.

"What are you guys doing today at camp?"

"We're going to Garden of the Gods to go hiking. Yesterday we got to go to the Celestial Seasonings factory in Boulder. It was awesome!"

"Oh yeah? what was it like? what did you see?"

"We got to taste different kind of herbal teas. And we got to go in this room where they process peppermint leaves - it smells so strong that my eyes watered."

"Cool!"

We walk out the door and head to the bus stop. We leave early because the kids like to get to camp with enough time to play before the day officially starts.

"Love you, Mama!" Zeke says.

"I love you too, babe."

"Mama, did you know that herbal teas aren't actually tea?"

"I did know that. They have different kinds of plants and flowers in them."

"Yeah, tea is actually a plant that grows!"

We get on the bus. Sometimes we chat, sometimes the kids strike up conversation with other riders, sometimes they read books, sometimes they play on my phone. We get off at my stop downtown, I walk them to the YMCA, bid them good-bye as they ignore me and race off to see their friends, and then walk across the street to my office.

Everyone is happy and relaxed.

Josie chills out on the sidewalk and plays with her fidget spinner as we wait for the bus.

Yesterday was the first day I had the kids since camp started. I picked them up and they were playing cards and making lanyards with their friends. They were happy and a little tired. We rode the bus home and they told me about their day. We went to the Greek diner on the next block for dinner. No one fought or bickered. Everyone was cheerful. Lovely manners were used at every turn.

Back at home, we watched a little TV (they're obsessed with World Wide Dance), read books for awhile, and went to bed early.

They were content so I was content. There's a sense of calm and peace in the house. I didn't feel as anxious.

When I'm with my children, they center me. They make me laugh and smile.

I'm working the knots, just a little bit.

A Jewish kid with a rosary walks into a bar...

I get a lot of phone calls from my mother while she's in various business class lounges in airports around the world. The other day it was from Melbourne, as she was getting ready to board a plane that would finally bring her back stateside after a two-week jaunt confabbing about international adoption through various countries in southeast Asia and Oceania.

I was relaying to her the email I got from Zeke's teacher about the difficulties he's having in school. Not with the content or curriculum, but with behaving. He's been defiant, argumentative, occasionally destructive (not majorly, but doing stupid shit like breaking pencils and ripping up assignments when he's pissed off), doesn't always focus on his work and is lazy about finishing it, and it's affecting his grades.

It's obviously very upsetting to me on a number of levels - I hate that he's having a hard time, I hate that he's being a dick to his teacher, who is really good with him. I also find it utterly bewildering. As a child (and throughout my entire educational career, actually), my self-worth and self-identification were very much immersed in living up to the expectations that my parents and my teachers had for me. I was lauded for being smart and good, for the teacher's plaudits during parent-teacher conferences that "she's such a pleasure to have in class," and I basked in that praise like a flower rotating to catch the rays of the sun. The notion of angrily rejecting a teacher's demands, or of not working hard enough to get good grades, was anathema to me. I would have sooner drunk a bottle of Windex than disappoint anyone.

But my son. My dear sweet, bright, exuberant, difficult son. My son who is so much more emotionally fragile than his sister or I are, with his mood swings and overdeveloped sense of righteousness. Lately he seems immune to such concerns.

The latest incident involved a rosary that he was wearing around his neck. He would get fidgety in class and take it off and start swinging it around, annoying the shit out of everyone in the vicinity and disrupting the teacher's ability to maintain order and keep everyone focused on their work.

He was repeatedly asked to stop. He didn't stop. He was told that if he didn't stop, the rosary would be taken away. He refused to hand it over. He was told to either hand it over or miss recess. He opted to miss recess. He yelled at his classmates and broke pencils and ripped papers and at one point when they were outside, took off his shoes and threw them at the wall.

The teacher gave him space to cool off, and he did. She then told him that he needed to write a letter of apology reflecting on his behavior, identifying different choices he could have made, and expressing contrition. He refused to do it in school, so he was told he could do it at home.

That's what prompted the email to me - she wanted to tell me what happened, but also ask for my support in making sure the letter was written. I told her that of course I would make sure it got done.

"Another thing I couldn't figure out is why the hell he was wearing a rosary, given that he's Jewish," I told my mom.

"Where would he have gotten it?" she asked.

"No idea."

"So what are you going to do?"

I sighed. "Make sure he writes the letter. Talk to him about what's going on with him, figure out if there's something bigger that's upsetting him."

"Oh, my poor Zekey," she said. "I hate that he's going through this."

"Me too. But I'll tell you what, that behavior is absolutely unacceptable. Whatever he may be dealing with emotionally, he can't act that way in school. He and I are going to sit down and have a real 'come-to-Jesus.'"

"Absolutely. Particularly if he's wearing a rosary."

Now you've grown so fine and come so far

My dear sweet Ezekiel,

I realized today, when thinking about you turning nine years old, that we have essentially reached the halfway point in the time that I get to claim you as fully mine, before you spread your wings and fly out into the world as a quasi-adult.

Obviously, you will always be my baby, my first born, my best boy.  But then you will go to college or off to fulfill some dream of adventure and start your own journey. Maybe, as my brothers and I have done, you will settle somewhere away from your parents. Thinking about that possibility - of not being able to see you whenever I want - makes my heart ache and my eyes fill with tears.

I'm getting ahead of myself, I know. But it goes so fast. It's such a cliche to say it, but it goes so, so fast.

I look back on pictures of you as a baby. You were so beautiful, with your dimples and your twinkly blue eyes and your wonky right ear that sticks out a little bit at the top - your dad dubbed it the "wingnut," which always made us giggle.

You have lost all of your babyish qualities. You are lean and strong. Your feet keep growing and stick out from the ends of your legs like paddles. You work on your six-pack abs.  There are no soft, baby-fat-ish curves in your face. You still have the outrageous dimples and the strikingly blue eyes, the freckles on your straight nose, the open grin. Setting aside any bias I have as your mother, objectively you an incredibly handsome kid.

From the beginning, you were strong and agile and coordinated and fearless.  You love hearing the story about the doctor was checking you out when you were first born, and marveling at how powerfully you kicked back when he pushed on the bottom of your foot. That strength and agility and athleticism has never abated.

This year, your interest in soccer has become particularly pronounced. On my weekends with you, one of our favorite activities is to go to the park and play soccer. Usually it involves me being permanent goalie while you try to score, or we'll run up and down the field doing passing drills.

You keep me young and healthy.

You have always been smart and interesting to talk to, but I'm seeing that intelligence and curiosity intensify. You're at the age I was when I was tested to be placed in a gifted program, and you're exhibiting some of the frustrations that I had at that age - being a bit bored in school, feeling like everything is a little too easy. Wanting to absorb as much knowledge as you can. You're doing gifted testing next month - I'll be curious to see how it goes.

Sometimes when you're lying in bed and we're talking, you'll ask me about history. Who fought in World War II? What were they fighting about? What's an ally? What's this song from the Hamilton soundtrack about? Who's singing? Who was that? Who are they talking about on the news? Who's the guy that has the disease but knows everything about black holes?

One day we were thinking about what to do on a beautiful Saturday.  "What do you guys want to do?" I asked. "Let's go for a hike in Boulder and then go to the science museum," you responded.

I love that.

We read together. We watch football together. We talk about life together. We have conversations about Greek mythology and poetry.  You're interested in everything.

Recently you and Josie and I were watching Project Runway together. Josie was looking at one of the designs and said, "that looks like a Valentino."

I gave her a skeptical look. "What you you know about Valentino?"

You said, "is he Italian?"

"Yes," I responded. "He's a famous Italian designer."

"How come so many great artists and designers are Italian?" you asked.

"Who else are you thinking of?"

"Leonardo..."

"Yes, he was a great Italian artist and inventor."

"And Michelangelo...."

"Yep," I said.

"And who's that other guy? Starts with a "d".... Dona-something?"

"Donatello. How do you know Donatello and these other guys?"

"Ninja turtles!" you responded.

I cracked up. And then you cracked up. We both started to laugh and laugh.

"You goofball," I giggled.

We laughed some more.

It's been an incredible nine years. I don't ever want to let you go, even thought I know someday I'll have to.

You fill my heart and make it sing.  Happy birthday, sweet gorgeous boy.

All my love,

Mama

And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

I was talking with my brother Sam over the weekend, just catching up and chit-chatting about this and that. I mentioned that I had been sick for two weeks and after kvetching about the various drugs I'm on and the various symptoms I'm still experiencing, I shrugged and said, "well, it'll go away eventually.  I'll live."

"Or not," he said.

"You're right!" I acknowledged. "It could go either way. I'll get better or I'll die."

"Yes," he said. "One of those two things will happen. You never know."

"But one way or the other, it'll resolve itself."

This is how we talk - you say "yes, and.." and keep it going.

We both laughed and continued talking about a book that he recommended that I'm in the middle of, about how throughout human history, mankind has made all of these changes to it's economic and cultural structure that have come under the guise of progress but that have actually altered the course of human history - and of the Earth's history - for the worse.

It's actually super-interesting and not depressing, though I know it sounds that way.

The conversation (both about potentially dying of a sinus infection, and the book) got me thinking about life in general, and how so much of what we do every day is in service to materialism, or to obligations that we are bound to because of our choices. We've created this mythology that allows us to believe that we are special and every minute is special and that life is to be cherished and every day is to be seized, and that we are not only entitled to happiness, but that if we don't feel happy we somehow aren't trying hard enough to embrace gratitude or whatever.  Then we feel inadequate and stressed out because we're not approaching things the way we're supposed to be approaching things, so we're failures at the happiness game.

But the truth is, life is often cruel and throughout human history, people have lived their entire lives in miserable conditions and without any notion of happiness as we view it today - it wouldn't occur to them that happiness was anything to be valued or sought out.  The point of living was to keep living until you died, and maybe propagate the species along the way.

Again, it wasn't a depressing chain of thought.  It was just ruminating on something that's interesting to me and that I think about sometimes -- that the way our culture approaches happiness as a goal of life is both a totally artificial construct that keeps us going, and also a source of enormous stress and dissatisfaction because it's such an elusive goal.

Anyway.

The end of summer and the focus on a new school year reinforces the speed with which time passes. I sometimes feel old and like I'm approaching the end of my shelf life and that I haven't accomplished anything of note.  Other times I feel good about where I am. But the number of my age is frequently in the back of my mind - I'm racing against a clock and it's ticking along but I don't know how much time is left on it.  And the fact that my kids are getting ready to turn 7 and 9 is weird to me - on one hand, it feels like they were just babies, but on the other, the baby and toddler years feel like eons ago.  They are such fully formed people now.  The barely human little amorphous blobs who needed to be swaddled and jiggled and shushed in order to calm down or get to sleep are, at this point, as familiar to me as aliens.

What's fascinating is that they also are so cognizant of the blazing speed at which time passes.

The night I was thinking all of these Deep Thoughts was the night before the first day of school.  The kids were excited and nervous and wired and anxious.  I was trying to put them to bed and sing to them to soothe them (badly, because my voice is still froggy and fucked up - I have no sense of my range and can't control the way it sounds), but they couldn't calm down.

Zeke said, "I'm nervous about school, and I'm also sad about it being the end of summer. It felt like it went so fast."

"It did, honey. And the truth is, you're going to realize that everything feels that way. You're going to start school tomorrow and before you know it, it'll be your birthday and then Halloween, and suddenly we'll be at Mimi and Papa's for Thanksgiving, and it's going to speed by and you're going to be amazed at how quickly it feels like summer arrived again."

He nodded and was quiet, clearly thinking about it all.

"I know you're feeling anxious, and I totally get that.  But tomorrow will be here before you know it, and once you get to school you won't even have time to be nervous because all of a sudden you'll be in the middle of greeting your friends and meeting your teacher and everything else.  So the day will quickly be over and you'll have dealt with it.  And the truth is, you do like school, so chances are it's going to be a great day."

He agreed that that was the likely outcome, but he and Josie were both restless and really wanting to talk through what they were thinking about, so I let them get in my bed so that we could talk quietly in the dark and fall asleep together.

We talked about the specific things they were worried about - would they make new friends, would their teachers like them, would they be able to learn new things and not feel stupid, would anyone be happy to see them.  Josie in particular has an ability to be anxious about something and then talk herself into a state of extreme agitation until she ends up sobbing, so I was trying to keep things light and make jokes and be silly.

But they were both wound tighter than the strings on my banjo, and I didn't realize how close to the edge they were.  And sometimes I forget how innocent and impressionable they are.

In the midst of all this, they asked me what were the things that made me nervous or anxious.

Half joking, I responded, "I worry that no one will ever love me again and that I'll die alone."

At which point, they both burst into tears and climbed onto me, smothering me with hugs and kisses and tears and drool.

"Nooo! Mama, why would you say that??  Why would you die alone?  You have us! We love you so much! Why would you think no one will love you??  Aaaaaauuuuuugggghhhhh!  We love you Mamaaaaaa!!!"  

They were seriously distraught and it took a few minutes to reassure them that I'm fine and that I know that their love for me is boundless.

I realized I need to leave those comments for conversations with my brother, who will know to respond, "yep, it's a distinct possibility!"

I also realized (for the millionth time) that these beautiful little people fill me with happiness, as elusive as that feeling can be.

Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?

"Mama?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"How tall is Mt. Everest?"

We are on the plane from Denver to Virginia.  This means I'm trapped in a middle seat between my two children, Josie asleep with her head on my lap, and Zeke looking out the window and pelting me with a three and a half hour barrage of questions.

Luckily, I'm up to speed on my random geography trivia.

"About 29,000 feet," I reply.

"How do you know that?"

"I don't know. I heard it or read it somewhere."

"Did you know that all of Mt. Everest would fit in the deepest trenches in the Pacific Ocean?"

"I did know that. I think the deepest Pacific trench is about 35,000 feet deep."

"That's really deep."

"It is."

He sits and thinks for a second, then starts studying the safety card from the seat pocket in front of him.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"If the plane is safely on the ground, why do the people need to exit the plane on the slides?"

He's looking at the picture of an emergency landing on the ground.

"I don't understand the question.  If the plane crash-lands on the ground, why don't people just stay on the plane?"

"Yes."

"Why would they do that?  They're not just going to sit on the plane and not go anywhere.  There could be a fire or some other danger from the crash, or people could be hurt. They need to get off the plane."

He points to the "no" symbol over the hand holding a briefcase.

"What's that?"

"It's saying that if you have to do an emergency exit off the slides, don't take your luggage with you."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't want to take any extra time getting off the plane.  They want people to get off the plane as quickly as possible so that everyone can get to safety."

"In case the plane blows up?"

"Possibly."

He looks out the window for a little while.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"How fast can the fastest plane go?"

"I'm not sure.  I know it's at least a couple thousand miles per hour."

"Can this plane go that fast?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not that kind of plane."

"What's the name of this plane?"

"Do you mean what airline is it?"

"Yes."

"It's United."

"Is that the airline that you don't like?"

"No, that's Frontier."

"Was that the airline that we took when we missed the plane?"

"We didn't miss that plane.  We got on that plane."

"Because you pitched a fit, right?"  He smiles.

"Right."

"How long does it take for this plane to go one mile?"

I do some quick calculations in my head.  "I think about 7 or 8 seconds."

"What if the wing falls off the plane?"

"That would be bad. We would crash."

"It's a really clear day today.  Look how far we can see."

"Yep."

"Is everything that we can see right now all one whole state?"

"I don't know. I don't know exactly where we are. But probably not. States are pretty big.  What we can see is most likely much smaller than a whole state."

"What river is that?"

"I don't know.  I don't know what we're flying over right now."

He's quiet for about a minute.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Did you know that when a cheetah is running and is fully stretched out with its legs off the ground, it's 20 feet long?"

"I did know that. I think you told me that."

He starts looking at his book, which is about surviving different kinds of natural disasters.  It's got a picture from the Japanese tsunami of 2011 on the cover.  It shows the water overtaking cars and trucks and everything else.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Was there someone in that truck?"

"Probably."

"Is he dead?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"What about that car? Is that guy dead?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Are those mountains we're flying over right now?"

"Yes."

"Which mountains are they?"

"Probably the Appalachians."

"How do you know?"

"I'm guessing based on how long we've been on the plane."

"How tall are they?"

"I'm not sure.  They're not as tall as the mountains in Colorado."

"You mean the Rocky Mountains?"

"Yes."

"They look different.  Not jagged-y."

"That's because they're much older mountains. As mountains age, they erode and smooth out."

"What's the shortest mountain in the world?"

This one totally stumps me.  "I don't know, honey."

"How tall is it?"

"I don't know. I don't know how tall land has to be to qualify as a mountain."

"Is it five feet?"

"I'm assuming it's higher than that. Five feet is barely a hill."

"Is it ten feet?"

"More than that."

"What's the shortest mountain called?"

"Sweetie, I have no idea."

Short break in the action.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Are we turning right now?"

"Yes."

"What if the plane gets sucked up into space?"

"That would be bad."

"Why?"

At this point, I start to laugh. I cover my face with my hands and I can't stop laughing. The guy in front of us, who has overheard all of this, looks back at me and smiles and starts laughing as well.

"You're doing great," he says.

I'm overwhelmed with a sense of deja vu.

Zeke reminds me so, so much of my brother Sam.  Sam is one of my favorite people in the world, partly because he is so inquisitive and thinks about things in such interesting ways.  But as a kid, when my family was travelling, we would argue over who had to sit next to Sam on long flights, because he never stopped talking and asking questions.

Later, I'm sitting with my mother at her kitchen table, telling her about the flight.  When I relay the question about the shortest mountain, she says, "why didn't you just make something up?  Just make up a name.  'The shortest mountain is Mt. Tiny' or something like that."

I can't believe that didn't occur to me.  But then again, she raised Sam.  She knows.  And it probably didn't occur to her the first time, either.

This whole process is a learning curve.  But a highly entertaining one.

#neverChesterCheetahImpersonator**

I've rarely weighed in on politics here - other people write about it far better than I could, plus arguing about politics on the internet strikes me as the ultimate exercise in futility.  But the fact that Donald Trump is now the presumptive Republican nominee is horrifying to me.  He has to be the most spectacularly unqualified presidential candidate ever - makes me long for the good ol' days of George W. fucking Bush.

The kids are scared as well.

Zeke asked me yesterday, "Mama, is Donald Trump going to be president after Obama?"

He has a particular affinity for Obama, who has been president for pretty much his entire life. They were both born in the same hospital in Hawaii, a fun fact that Zeke is super proud of and that he likes to share whenever it comes up.

"No," I responded.

"How do you know?"

"Because he's awful and enough people know that he's awful that they won't vote for him.  He's getting a lot of attention right now, but he's not going to win."

"Why is he awful?"

"He's a racist, for one thing. And a bully. And stupid."

"What's a racist?"

"It's someone who thinks that people should be treated differently because of their skin color, like for example thinking that people who have light skin are better than people with dark skin."

His eyes got really wide.  "Oh, no! We can't let that happen, not again!"

I'm assuming he was referring to slavery - I didn't want to burst his bubble by pointing out that racism remains alive and well.  But still, I was gratified by his reaction.

"If he did get elected president, would you still be my mom?"

"Of course. What do you mean by that?"

"Jerry [his friend from school] said that if Trump gets to be president, our moms won't be our moms anymore."

"No, that's not true. I'll always be your mom."

"I also heard that he doesn't like girls."

"Trump? No, he doesn't.  He treats girls - women - horribly.  He's a terrible person."

"If he got elected, would kids have to sit in the front seat of a car?"

Where are they getting this stuff??

"No, that's not something presidents do."

"If he became the president, would we leave and move somewhere else?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because this is where we live. This is our home. I would hate it if he were president, but it wouldn't make me leave."

"Well, I hope he doesn't win."

"Me too, baby.  And I truly don't believe he will.  It would be a disaster if he did.  But he won't."

From my lips to God's ears.

________________________________________

**For a comprehensive list of the different monikers Jezebel has bestowed on Trump, click here.  there are some wonderful doozies.

Games people play, you take it or you leave it

It's not the fake drinking I mind so much as the fake food.  At least with the fake drinking, when we have to change the pretend diapers, it's just water.  But the fake food comes out the other end as fake poop, and it's this colorful slime that is just gross.

But Josie loves her Baby Alive doll (or she calls it, Alive Baby), so I tolerate it.  And when she ran out of the stupidly expensive diapers that came with the doll, I bought her a box of regular preemie diapers that she could use instead, and that fit just fine.

I refused, however, to buy more packets of the fake food, because it's disgusting.

I was faked out, though, because she was hoarding some.

I was sitting at my desk in the alcove off my bedroom trying to figure out how to get iTunes to automatically search for and import the various music files scattered around my computer.  I ended up figuring it out by accident, and if a gun were held to my head, I couldn't duplicate my efforts, but in the meantime, I was focused on my task while the kids played in their room.  I could hear bits and pieces of their happy chatter.

First it was playing with a sticker book.  Knowing that they tend to deposit stickers on walls and furniture, I was thankful that most of the stuff in their room comes from IKEA, and that I painted their walls with a semi-gloss paint that releases stickers painlessly.

Then I heard Zeke say, "Josie, let's play 'Mamas and Babies.'"

I don't know exactly what this entails, but it sounded innocuous.

A while later, I wandered down the hall to check on them.  When I poked my head into their bedroom, I found Zeke on all fours while Josie stood in front of him, feeding him green goop from a small plastic spoon.

To myself, I said, what the hell??

Out loud, I said, "what on earth are you guys doing?"

"Zeke is the baby," Josie explained. "I'm feeding him."

"Is that the Baby Alive food?"

"Yes!"

"Guys, come on. That is gnarly. Don't eat that stuff. It's nasty."

"It's good, Mama!" Zeke insisted.

"Ugh." I responded.  But I figured, whatever.  It's not going to hurt them.

I went back to my computer.

A little while later, Josie came in.  On all fours, panting like a dog.

"Mama, Zeke and I want to play a game with you."

"OK.  What kind of game?"

"A game when me and Zeke are dogs and you are our owner."

I started to laugh.  "You guys are nuts.  OK, how do we play this game?"

"Tell us what to do."  She pointed to an overturned laundry basket.  "That's my kennel.  When you want me to go in it, say, 'kennel.'"

"OK.  Kennel."

She crawled under the laundry basket, and happily curled up on the floor and pretended to sleep.

"Do you want to come out of the kennel?"  I asked after a minute.

"No.  I'm a puppy.  Puppies need naps."

My children are fucking weird.